


Hot Mouths

by DoreyG



Category: The Shardlake series - CJ Sansom
Genre: Adrenaline fueled sex, Alley!Sex, I am pretty sure that they actually did this and it just wasn't included, M/M, Or alley!Blowjobs, blowjob, book tie-in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 07:22:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Escaping from the Wentworth family house proves a <i>great</i> aphrodisiac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Mouths

They both thud back against the wall. Breath catching in their throats, hearts pounding in their chests, everything _shaking_ as they try not to collapse on (and into) the dirty floor.

“Did they see you?” He hisses desperately.

“I don’t _know_ ,” Barak snaps in reply.

“Are you alright-?”

“Just my shoe. Just my-“

Barak stumbles, back against the wall on his bitten foot. He immediately reaches out to grab the man’s arm, adrenaline still shaking through him.

…Heating him.

_Arousing_ him.

They stare at each other for a long moment. He, almost absently, keeps his hand where it is.

“…Yes, I’m alright,” Barak repeats, apropos of nothing since the query wasn’t repeated – turns slightly, lifts his free hand as if he’s not quite sure where to put it (but it tempted, so _very_ tempted), “what about you, Matthew?”

“Me?” He’s aware of how dumb he sounds, how weak he feels for not slapping that insolence down. But the adrenaline is still pulsing within him, working with the darkness to turn Barak’s glistening lips into the most captivating things in the world.

“Yes, are you…” The man, in turn, seems to forget how to speak for a few minutes under his scrutiny – rough fingers finally coming to rest on the wall besides his head, digging slightly into the battered stone, “alright?”

“Fine,” he half breathes, half squeaks – and he _really_ should be getting his breath back now.

“Are you sure?” Fat chance of that – with Barak’s fingers suddenly against his neck, Barack’s tight body pressing him against the wall so he can feel every single hard (being the relevant word) line from chest down to- “absolutely sure, Matthew?”

“Y-yes, just my-“ Barack’s fingers twitch – scratch gently, impossibly warm, “fuck, _Barak_.”

“Say my name,” the command is harsh, hissed right into his ear as they properly slot together and start to _rock_ , “my first name, that proper Christian one. Come on, now.”

His-

_His-_

“ _Jack_ ,” he hisses, sliding his eyes narrowly open and finding his lips practically grazing the shell of Barak’s ear “…Shouldn’t we go now?”

“…I don’t know,” The rocking pauses. Barak’s hard body practically _shaking_ with the effort it takes to hold back his hips (and he knows this is the adrenaline, _knows_ it isn’t actual attraction, but damn him to the fire if the obvious need doesn’t make him harder yet), “should we?”

There is a pause.

…Barak pulls slowly back, looks into his eyes.

And suddenly they’re _kissing_. Not a timid brush of mouth over cheek, not the closed mouth awkwardness that youngsters indulge in – a proper _slam_ of lips and teeth, hot and hard and _glorious_ as their tongues tangle together.

He slides his free hand up into Barak’s hair, tightens his other one on Barak’s arm until it _must_ be painful. The man doesn’t seem to mind: simply slings the caught arm around his waist, tightens his fingers on the wall until he can hear the _screech_ of nails over hard brick.

They remain like that for a second. Swaying together. So hot and hard and _perfect_ that he doesn’t care that they’re on a street for everybody to see, doesn’t care that watchmen could come charging around the corner at any moment, doesn’t _care_ that they just broke into a house and almost got caught and strung and-

Suddenly he’s being pressed back against the wall, and his back is _screaming_ out protest, “ah!”

“What?” Barak, to his credit, immediately draws back – tugs free both arms and frames his face with unexpected tenderness, “what’s wrong? Are you-?”

“I didn’t finish earlier,” he says tightly, and yet more credit to Barak – he doesn’t even _smirk_ at the obvious joke, “my back…”

“Oh.”

…And he doesn’t need to go a word further. Barak is already gently spinning them – turning until _he’s_ the one with his back comfortably against the wall. A very slight smirk upon his face, hands still gentle as they smooth down to his shoulders, “better?”

“Much” …He hums, knowing that he should probably catch sense in these brief (unwelcome) moments of reprieve, and leans back in.

The kiss continues for a few seconds, him technically having the upper hand now. Barak’s arms wrap eagerly around his neck, trying to tug him closer with every slick movement of their lips. His knee somehow finds its way in between Barak’s, gently nudges there against the growing hardness that’s all for him. They repeat their old trick of slotting together, slowly start to rock and shift and _groan_ into each others’ mouths…

And then Barak draws back again, thuds his head back against the wall and gasps at the night sky as he (helplessly) leans in and starts sucking patterns along that neck.

“…Why’ve we stopped?” Mumbles a few moments later, his lips just under Barak’s jaw.

“Because, as much as I’d like to take you here and now and make you _scream_ , it’s not sensible to get so tangled in the middle of the city,” Barak simply stares calmly at him from beneath hooded eyes, seems pleased at his helpless shudder over the mere suggestion of _taking_ , “we must wait until we get home.”

…Which sounds sensible, he will admit.

“But-“ _but_. He is too far now for sense, further than he has ever been _from_ sense. His limbs feel like they’re on fire, every inch of him burning far too hot. He can barely stand on his legs for he’s shaking too much, he’s so hard that if he doesn’t get off _now_ he feels like he’s going to explode, he _wants_ Barak, he _wants_ -

And, luckily, the divine man sees the fevered look in his eyes. And starts to smirk in a way that _hardly_ helps anything at all, “and you call me rough.”

“Jack…”

“Hush, now,” and suddenly the man is upon his knees, down in the dirt with that smirk looking _perfectly_ at home, “we may not have time to get fully tangled but we can, at least, get a little bit mussed.”

“You should’ve been a- _Fuck_!”

“That is your favourite word tonight,” Barak muses, casually pushing up his doublet and down his hose, “before long we’ll have you talking just as rough as me.”

…And he stops.

_Stares_ , as a quick look down confirms. Seems to be taking in every inch of him: thoroughly, appreciatively, so _worshipfully_ that it makes him flush bright red. He doesn’t feel like a nothing under Barak’s gaze, doesn’t feel like an annoyance, doesn’t feel like just a hunchbacked lawyer who keeps getting caught up in things far too dangerous for him. He feels…

_Wanted_.

And that’s a powerful feeling, as he softly clears his throat and starts back slightly as Barak’s attention redirects itself to his face – all that worship suddenly fixed upon his eyes and absolutely nowhere else.

They stare at each other for about a minute.

“My,” and Barak’s grin is _huge_ , as he carelessly shrugs and ducks his head back down, “they should use you to ward off ships at night.”

And he’d protest that. Truly-

But Barak’s mouth is _hot_ , and suddenly he’s far too busy biting his hand to even _think_ of anything so petty. Far too busy fisting his other hand in Barak’s dark, somehow silky hair to even vaguely _muse_ on tutting and wagging a pointlessly pointed finger.

Barak sucks like he was born to do it. Hard, fast and so deep that he feverishly wonders how the man avoids choking. He twists his head perfectly, sways so far forwards that he _swears_ he can feel the wet suction of a throat closing around him.

The man allows him a moment to get used to just that, _just_ that, and then suddenly speeds up – twisting his lips perfectly, scraping his teeth, reaching a hot hand up to rest on his hip. Things that have his eyes falling shut and his head tilting helplessly back-

_Fuck_.

-Which leaves him perfectly defenceless when Barak chooses to _hollow_ his cheeks: The wet suction around his cock suddenly increasing to an almost unbearable amount, the sudden wave of pleasure making him bite a cry into his hand until he tastes _blood_.

Barak pulls off for a few seconds: gentle, teasing, giving him a break…

Only to _completely knock him out of his head_ when he returns. Hollowing his cheeks completely, moving fast enough to be a blur, reaching talented fingers back between his shaking legs until- until- _until_ -

It takes one final swallow for him to come undone. And then everything is suddenly white, his entire world shaking and buzzing and _blissful_ until he becomes vaguely aware of his hands braced against the wall, a dribble of blood running down his lip and Barak rocking back on his heels underneath him.

…Well.

_Well_.

“That-“ he starts, and realizes that he has no words for _that_ \- can only extend his hand and make the vaguest of beckoning motions, “come here.”

Barak rises, a touch unsteady, slides into his arms like he was _born_ to be there. The kiss this time is slow and luxurious – slightly sinful, as he gently sucks the taste of himself from Barak’s ever so talented tongue and happily feels the answering rumble.

He’s reaching for Barak’s doublet in return when his wrist is grabbed, quickly twisted into a gentle holding of hands to take the sting away from the motion, “no.”

He looks up, still a little dazed, watches the glaze in Barak’s eyes, “what-?”

“It’s dangerous to get so tangled in the middle of the city, remember?” Is the rough reply, Barak clearly still aroused as their fingers wind together, “I would not have you murdered after only having had the briefest taste.”

…He turns bright red again, still accepts the hand holding as he shifts to make his doublet flop properly back into place, “but yourself-“

“If you’re so keen to get me off in return you can blow me back at the house. Or give me a wristy, I’m really not picky,” Barak laughs, gently - tugs them away from the wall and cautiously out into the street with a stance that is only a _touch_ heavy, “for now, though, we really have to get going.”

…He considers that for a few streets, their hands still entwined as they walk, “Jack?”

“Mm?”

“I hope you’re ready to scream in turn.”

And the laugh he receives, bright and bubbling and _joyful_ in the dark, almost makes his horrible day _entirely_ worth it.


End file.
